


Maybe

by Fangirlxwritesx67



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:22:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29931321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangirlxwritesx67/pseuds/Fangirlxwritesx67
Summary: You miss your lover when you have to get out of bed for work on a Saturday morning, but he makes it worth your while when you come back home.
Relationships: Jared Padalecki/Reader, Jared Padalecki/You, Reader/Man of Your Dreams
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hopelessly attracted to Jared Padalecki aka Sam Winchester aka Cordell Walker, so that's who this was in my mind. But he can but just about anyone you want him to be.

Maybe it was the way his arm tightened around you when your alarm went off, the way he pulled you in against the length of his body, warm and solid against your back. 

“Stay,” he murmured. You nuzzled into your pillow and relaxed against him, held safely in the shelter of his broad shoulders, his muscled chest. But when the snooze went off, you knew -- you had to get up. 

“It’s a short shift at the coffee shop,” you promised. “I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Maybe it was the way his grasp tightened around your hip, holding you close, as he whispered your name against the back of your neck. You pulled away reluctantly, his fingers curling over your back before you finally got up. Those hands, so lethal, could be so gentle. 

Maybe it was the way he looked when you went back to say goodbye, right before you left. His handsome face was soft, cheekbones creased by the pillows, hair falling over his forehead into his eyes. He didn’t look like a fighter, a hero -- he looked like your love. 

Maybe it was the curve of his mouth that stayed with you, lips pink against the dark scruff that stubbled his jaw. When you bent down to kiss him, he turned towards you, mostly asleep but almost smiling. 

For any of those reasons, maybe all of them, you missed him more than usual. You carried the image of him in your mind as you went about your morning, feeling the ghost of his touch on your skin. Although you smelled coffee and chocolate and milk and muffins, you remembered the scent that was specifically him -- that smoke spice sweat that you loved. 

Desire glowed hot and bright in your thoughts. You wanted him, wanted his hands on your skin and his body pressed close, dreaming of the pleasure he gave you. By the time you were finished with the shift, you had a familiar damp ache between your legs. You squirmed in the car as you drove, trying to ease the pulse of longing you felt, when all you could think about was getting back home, back to him.

When you got home, you headed for the shower, stripping off the work clothes that had been splashed with half-warm milk and sticky syrup. Then you wrapped yourself in a towel, damp still clinging to your skin. You headed towards the bedroom, imagining the lacey little things you would put to surprise him when you found him.

Instead, he startled you. He was in bed, sheets crossed low over his hips, showing off a dazzling amount of his tanned toned body. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all morning.” His voice was husky. “Missed you so much.” 

When he spoke in that tone, sweet-talked you like that, it sent shivers all the way to your core. Still, you tried to play it cool. “Oh yeah? What were you thinking about?” 

His lips curled up in a smirk. “C’mere, baby, lemme show you.” He held out one hand, and you went to him without protest. Once you got within his reach, he tugged the towel away, his gazing raking over your body with visible appreciation. “Gorgeous.” He whispered. 

One hand skimmed over your breasts and down your ribs before curving over your waist and around your hips. He palmed your ass and then trailed even lower, long fingers curling around your thighs. The other hand cupped your face, pulling you in for a scorching kiss. 

You parted your lips, let his tongue in, giving as much as you were taking. You sighed and sank against him, couldn’t help it, and he grinned as he pulled back just a little. He rested his forehead against yours, so close you could feel his words, pinning you with his bright gaze.

“Sit on my face?” 

You giggled, but he was dead serious, and he slid down the pillow as you straddled his shoulders. You worried, as you always did, about your weight on top of him, bracing yourself against the headboard. But just like every time, he slid his hands over your thighs, supporting you on his forearms, fingers digging into your ass to pull you down and in. 

You relaxed, and at the first brush of his lips, the first stroke of his tongue, you moaned. His pace was perfect, not teasing but not rushing you. You were already so wound up that every little thing he did felt amazing. Before long, you were rocking against him, grinding down on his chin and his nose, eager for more. 

You heard yourself panting, whimpering, you didn’t care. All you wanted was to come, and then you did, a burst of pleasure sending sparks of delight from between your legs up your body and down your trembling legs.

He tapped his fingers on your thigh, and you shifted your balance, letting him roll you over onto your back. He stretched out next to you, one hand resting lightly below your belly button. His eyes never left yours, and his expression was proud and hungry. 

“Want more?” he asked, and there was that smirk again -- the curl of his mouth, the lift of his brow, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. It wiped every thought from your head. “Tell me what you want,” he commanded. 

“Please,” was all you could manage at first. “Want more, more of you.”

His hand pushed lower, teasing you with callused fingertips, making you repeat yourself -- please, please -- until finally he slipped one finger inside of you. You gasped first, and then as that digit was joined by another, you bit your lip to hold back a wanton sound. You reached down, lacing your fingers with his. He kissed you, all over your face and neck and breasts, working his way lower. All the while, he moved in and out of you with a steady, maddening rhythm. 

You felt your body begin to tense, and then he curled his fingers, hitting that sweet spot deep inside. You started to beg, again -- _oh please oh please oh please_ \-- until he lowered his mouth too, right above where his fingers were sunk into you, and he _sucked_. You reached for his hair, tangled in it and _yanked_ , holding him close, and you would swear he laughed, but you didn’t know, because all of a sudden you were coming again, toes cramping, bucking up into his face. 

“Feel so good,” he praised you as he inched his fingers out, “So good coming for me just like that, so tight and warm and fucking perfect.” For a minute neither of you moved, just breathing hard together. Then he spoke again, low and ragged. “I really wanna be inside you.” 

“Oh gods yes,” you answered. “Right fuckin’ now.”

As he settled between your knees, you squirmed in anticipation, desperate for what you had been thinking about all day. Still, he took his time. You cried out as he pressed into you, that first blunt inch of him the most perfect stretching fullness, right on the edge of pain. He paused, waiting, so attuned to your needs, until your hands closed over his shoulders to pull him in and begged, “More, please, more.” 

He rocked into you slowly, giving you time to adjust, to take him all in. Breathless moaned fragments of words fell from your lips like a wanton litany, driven by the rhythm of his body against yours, wet filthy animal noises. He was everywhere, over and in you, surrounding you, filling you, driving you higher and higher. 

He knew just how fast to move, how much pressure to lay on you, how hard he could press his lips into the exposed curve of your jawline. He knew when you were close, and that’s when he started to talk. 

“I love you, love you so fuckin’ much.” His voice was gravelly, his words breathless. “Wish you could see how beautiful you are like this, taking my cock so good. You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Such a good girl, coming for me. Come for me, just like this --” 

He probably said your name, but you had no idea, couldn’t hear or see or hardly _breathe_ for how hard your orgasm hit you, tension clamping down hard before rolling out in clenching ripples through your body. 

You could’ve been done, that was enough, except then he hooked one arm under your leg, bringing it up before he thrust in _deep_.

“Can you come for me again, baby? One more time?” You looked up at him -- his face flushed, eyes lust-blown, lips kiss-swollen. The two of you were matched in your desire for one another. You had yielded to him, trusted your body and your pleasure to him. If he said you were gonna come again, you were gonna come. 

But you didn’t have the words for any of that, just groaned his name. He took that for the yes it was, and started to fuck you harder, faster. You tightened your grip on his arms, nails digging into his skin, desperate for anything to grasp onto, anything to hold. 

Your orgasm built like a wave, rising and rising, and just when you thought it must surely break, there was more. You heard yourself cry out, low and wild. And then all of a sudden, you were at the crest of it and falling, tumbling, helpless in an ocean of release. His movements stuttered, broke, and he came hard, sending shuddering aftershocks through you. 

When he finally stilled, you were motionless, overwhelmed, so suffused with pleasure that you could hardly think. You felt impossibly heavy and weightless at once, unable to move or speak. 

He pulled away slowly, rolling you on your side so you were face to face, breathing in the same close air, chests heaving, skin prickling. 

“I love you so, so much.” He said again. “Gorgeous, my good girl.” He kissed you so deep you felt like you were almost drowning in him. 

Your hand cupped his cheek, held him close, and you looked into his eyes as you whispered his name. Your lips met, over and over, until you stopped shaking, until your breathing slowed. He held you close, skin pressed to skin against the length of your bodies. 

His strong hands traced soft patterns over your skin, When he finally spoke, he smiled, eyes crinkling and dimples popping in his cheeks. 

“So, that's what I was thinking about all morning. Was it what you were hoping for?"

You laughed. He knew you so well. “Maybe.” 


End file.
